


Pink in a Study

by Bitenomnom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A Study in Pink, Alternate Universe, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Mathematics, University, parallels with ASiP, teen!lock, unusual methods of payment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:26:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitenomnom/pseuds/Bitenomnom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One John Watson (tired, stressed, recently recovered from prolonged illness) is very late for a tutoring session with Sherlock Holmes.<br/>As it turns out, Sherlock's methods can be a bit...unorthodox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink in a Study

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of getting 100 followers on Tumblr I asked for drawing and drabble requests, so this is based on a request by [mylittlecornerofsherlock](http://mylittlecornerofsherlock.tumblr.com) for "Teen!lock where Sherlock is John's math/science tutor. Payment for services rendered is up to you" with an additional hope for fluff and a note that "teen" could include uni. I hope this is to your liking! I certainly had fun with it. This takes place as if Sherlock and John were these ages in the current day (i.e. they have laptops and mobile phones, etc.).
> 
> Not part of the "Mathematical Proof" series, but does nonetheless contain math. XD
> 
> I guess I should also say that I am totally clueless about the UK's education system, so...feel free to correct any errors I've made. I hope there aren't too many...

            Late.

_Typical._

            Sherlock glanced around at the other patrons of the coffee shop while he waited: they’d gotten that young woman’s order wrong, but she was too shy to say anything; the fellow wearing the plaid shirt for the second day in a row was meant to be meeting someone, but she wasn’t going to show, and he knew it, but was just going to stay another ten minutes _just in case_ , and another ten, and another ten.

            Sherlock rather hoped he wasn’t in the same situation. It would be a dreadful waste of time, but not, by any means, the first time one of his tutees had failed to show.

            This particular student had sent him an email after hearing from a friend ( _Stamford,_ Sherlock supposed it must have been—Mike, who had only gotten through his freshman biology course thanks to the memory devices Sherlock had taught him last semester) that he was good. Well: that probably wasn’t what this student had heard. He’d probably heard that Sherlock was _effective_ , and that was what mattered, so it was as good an advertisement as any. Not that Sherlock needed advertisement: not that he had ever really intended to become a tutor. He picked up a few jobs here and there, but was hardly in need of the money. He did it for free under the condition no one mentioned it to others: didn’t need helpless students flocking around him just before finals, hoping to somehow bring their grade up by two letters with one test. Mycroft called it _public-spirited_. Really, it was just another source of entertainment. Studying for his own courses became dull quickly—and this served the added purpose of allowing him to study how other, inferior minds processed information. It was useful. He got most of his students from Lestrade, an upperclassman who led study sessions for class credit and referred the students who needed extra help to Sherlock—but this student wasn’t one of Lestrade’s. It made things more interesting—he was, at least, less likely to be a complete idiot. He was an unknown quantity: Sherlock was curious.

            The email had been polite, but straight to the point. No groveling or flimsy justifications, “I know I’m failing, but it’s all the professor’s fault…” No unrealistic, “I have a D right now but I need a B+ by next week’s exam, please help.” He’d given a reason and quickly moved on. Sherlock was unaccustomed to being addressed so pleasantly. Perhaps it was his reputation (which Lestrade certainly didn’t help by warning all his students who were to meet with Sherlock that he was a pain in the arse to deal with, but worth it). He wasn’t about to fool himself into thinking anyone thought anything positive about him beyond _intelligent_ and _capable_ , and that was what mattered, anyway—but it also meant that besides knowing that he was clever, the majority of students who knew of him also knew him as _weird_ , as _creep_ or _freak_ or worse things. They separated themselves from him, and Sherlock was fine with that. He was used to it.

            What he wasn’t used to was politeness or overt _kindness_. Sherlock opened his laptop again to read over the email—it was fantastically unlikely he’d remembered the time or place incorrectly, but it seemed so—well. It would be a shame to miss out on meeting this Watson student, to study what made him treat Sherlock differently—or was this how he treated everyone? Probably so. Socially ingrained habits, easy to maintain once well learned regardless of the person with whom one was communicating. But he could find out: were they merely deeply engrained, or wielded according to some sort of criteria?

            “Sherlock!” a familiar voice called, and Sherlock glanced over his left shoulder reluctantly to see Molly leaning over the counter. “Aren’t you ordering anything?”

            “Of course not,” he said.

            “Can I get you something anyway?”

            Molly was an enigma. Molly was _nice_ —genuinely nice, for no apparent reason besides an inexplicable infatuation with Sherlock, and god knew why she had _that_. He supposed he was reasonably attractive; maybe that was why.

            “How is university?”

            Because Molly, of course, was still a sixth form student. While her constant fawning over him since the first moment he’d spoken to her was obnoxious, it wasn’t _all_ bad, knowing there was someone in the world who—well. Who didn’t hate him. And he always came back to this shop for his tutoring sessions. He knew, at least, that he wouldn’t be kicked out, even if he never bought anything. Molly occasionally brought him a coffee so that it at least _appeared_ that he had. Certainly, he ought to have bought them for himself, but—he didn’t want any. “Boring,” Sherlock finally answered.

            “Oh,” was apparently all she could think to say. “Well, are you tutoring someone interesting?”

            Sherlock was reminded of the email he’d pulled up on his laptop. He glanced over it again for any other details he could glean—had he got the date wrong? No, no, of course not, but—best to check. Perhaps Watson had sent him an email asking for a reschedule. He opened the thread.

 

_Hello,_  
 _Never done this before, not sure of the proper protocol, but –_  
 _After a prolonged absence from my classes, I’ve fallen terribly behind and a friend says you’d be able to help me get back up to speed. If you think you might have time to tutor me in calculus, please let me know. You’d definitely have my gratitude. Monday evenings work best for me, but I could work something else in if that’s not convenient for you, of course._  
 _Mike didn’t mention your rates, so if you could also let me know what those are, that’d be helpful._  
 _Thanks in advance,_  
 _John Watson_

            Sherlock read over his own reply.

           

            _Friday evening most convenient. 6 p.m., Criterion Café._

                                    _Sherlock Holmes_

Today was Friday, and he was at the Criterion, and he’d been here since six and it was now nearly twenty past.

            John Watson had answered,

 

            _Works for me—see you then._

_John_

 

            And nothing since then, no request to reschedule. Sherlock wondered if changing the date from Watson’s preference was at all inconvenient for him, and he found he didn’t care. There was a sort of power to be had in being the one to determine the final details—it set up the appropriate dynamic from the start.

            Then again, Sherlock thought, who was the one wasting his time waiting around for the other? It was a sort of power play, wasn’t it? But Watson wasn’t thinking about that. He was probably just late. Perhaps he’d forgotten—no, given the subtle sense of urgency in his email, he wouldn’t forget. Just late, then.

            Molly cleared her throat. “Sherlock?”  
            “What?” Oh, right. She’d asked some sort of question.

            “Er…”

            Sherlock glanced up at her and then followed her gaze to a befuddled-looking fellow hovering near the door.

            “Is that your student?”

            Which would be a stupid question for anyone else, but Sherlock wasn’t anyone else. He let his eyes wander over who was, without a doubt, John Watson: carrying a bag, but then about half the people in the café were, so that was hardly telling in and of itself. However, he clearly wasn’t a regular to the place. He was taking in the layout with sharp, cautious glances while apparently trying to evaluate who, exactly, was Sherlock Holmes. He also had tired eyes and a pack of tissues that had been stuffed into his bag at least a week ago, hadn’t been touched for a few days: so, he’d missed classes due to illness, and that was the reason for his “prolonged absence,” why he needed a tutor. He was recovering and no longer needed a constant supply of tissues, but catching up on lecture notes and assignments was impeding his recovery: he was still experiencing mild symptoms, remnants of his illness, due to stress.

            Sherlock could fix that.

            “John Watson, I assume,” he said from his table, and John’s attention snapped to him. The force of his focus was powerful; or maybe Sherlock was simply used to others being uncomfortable with him, preferring not to acknowledge his piercing stare. All unsureness in John’s stance disappeared as he approached—again, with laser focus, straight line, impulse and momentum, like a bomb, like a bullet.

            “Yeah,” he said, holding a hand out. “Uh…Sherlock…?” he asked tentatively, as if unsure as to whether calling him by his first name would be too insulting.

            “Indeed,” Sherlock grabbed his hand (warm, strong for his apparent tiredness and likely week or more away from major physical activity). “And when did you fall ill?”

            “Sorry?”

            “You missed classes because you were ill—particularly nasty flu, I’d guess by your hints of symptoms. You went back to classes on Monday, and although the remainder of any congestion ceased to be problematic on Wednesday, you are still experiencing echoes of the symptoms, possibly because the illness is lingering, more likely due to the stress of catching up with what you missed. So: when did it start?”

            He sniffled, as if checking whether he had particularly telling congestion. (He didn’t—that is, it wasn’t terribly obvious—but Sherlock wasn’t about _obvious_.) “How did you know?”

            “Sit down,” Sherlock motioned to the chair across from him.

            John did so, shrugging his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor and reaching for his textbook and notes. He opened his mouth—obviously to ask another question, Sherlock thought—so instead Sherlock said, “Calculus, wasn’t it? This time in the semester, you’ll be just beginning integrals.”

            “Yeah,” John said. “Er, thanks for—for meeting with me. Mike said you really helped him and though I’m sure I—”

            Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “Mike Stamford’s case was entirely different.”

            “Was it?”

            “Oh, certainly. Now, where is it you’ve gotten confused?” Sherlock motioned to John’s textbook, narrowing his eyes at him and waiting, waiting to take in the details of how John Watson’s mind worked.

            John appeared to be making an effort to direct his eyes toward the book, but they were magnetized to Sherlock.

            “Well?”

            “Sorry, just thought you were going to—dunno—just be able to _guess_ what I needed help with. Since you also knew about me being sick, and all. How _did_ you know?”

            “I didn’t know, I noticed.” Sherlock sat back, crossing his arms. “I already knew from your email that you had been gone from classes for more than a few days. Not because you skipped classes; you had a valid reason. It could have been an extended vacation, but your posture and the tissues in the side-pocket of your bag said illness, and the fact that you are so concerned to meet me and catch up in your classes despite the fact that I did not tell you my rates says too studious to take an extended vacation during the academic year, least of all without making arrangements prior to your absence.” Sherlock nodded toward the tissues. “I concluded that you’ve felt well enough not to use them since it appears that they’ve been jostled about for a few days. If you’d been retrieving them, the one protruding from the plastic wouldn’t be so worn and folded, and I do believe that’s dust along the edge. But why, if you are feeling well again, would you still appear so tired with milder forms of your previous symptoms? Easy: stress due to your missed classes preventing you from a full recovery. You aren’t _actually_ sick any longer. I’d recommend you stop taking cold medicine.”

            “How did you—”

            “You’re coughing, sniffling, and your breath smells slightly of fake cherry flavouring; of _course_ you’re taking cold medicine.”

            “That’s…that’s fantastic. That you—got all that.”

            “Well I—” he started defensively, as if by habit, before realizing what John had said. “Oh. Was it really?”

            “Yeah. It was—it was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

            “Did I get anything wrong?”

            John opened his mouth to speak.

            “Oh, I did—wait, don’t tell me. I’ll deduce it.”

            “You’ll…”

            “Before we’re done. Now, the calculus.”

            “Er…right. Yes, uh, we started integrals and I think I just—well. It’s a bit overwhelming to come back and we’re doing something completely different to—”

            “To derivatives, John?” Sherlock took John’s notebook and flipped to a blank page. “You couldn’t be more incorrect. Here, take a look—” he began scribbling in the notebook, and after a few moments, glanced up at John, who appeared to be halfway on the way to nodding off. “John?”

            “Mm?” he snapped awake. “Oh, god, oh—I’m—I’m so—I’m not—”

            “Hmm,” Sherlock’s eyes stuck to John, which seemed to wake him up significantly.

            “Hey, er, how old are you, anyway?” he asked, making an effort to look over what Sherlock had written. He looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes. “I mean, not to be—it’s just…”

            “You find it unusual that someone appearing to be somewhat younger than you has already moved past the entire calculus rotation,” Sherlock finished for him. “Seventeen.”

            “You’re a first-year?”

            “Problem?”

            “No, just making me feel like an idiot, is all,” John rubbed his face in his hands.

            “I tend to have that effect,” Sherlock said quietly. He nodded slightly to himself, almost resolutely, and pushed his chair back as he stood and looked out the wide windows in front. “John, I think you need to see something.”

            “What do you—”

            And Sherlock was sprinting, was out the door of the café within seconds. John searched others’ faces, as if someone else in the establishment would have a better idea of what had just happened than he had. He caught Molly’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

            “Um,” she shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “That’s Sherlock for you.”

            “Arsehole,” another employee added from the back. “You’re better off just staying in here and studying by yourself. He’s not coming back.”

            “Right, er,” John said, and sighed. “Even so…” If Sherlock was just going out for a smoke or something—because John could deduce a thing or two about Sherlock himself—John would have a few words for him. He hefted his bag back onto his shoulders and was dragging himself out of his seat until he heard a blaring car horn from just outside the door. “Oh, god,” he muttered, and dashed out and up to the street.

            Sherlock was on the other side, and still running.

            “Christ,” John muttered, glancing to either side of the street and then raced across and after Sherlock, who ducked around a corner almost before John could catch sight of him. Shops and shops and shops flashed by, streets and streets.

            Sherlock, of course, was not carrying a bag, and he had longer legs anyway, and that was entirely unfair, but eventually he slowed his pace and John caught up.

            “What was _that_ all about, then?”

            “Calculus, John,” Sherlock huffed, smirking.

            “You’re kidding me.” John stopped to lean back against the side of one of the buildings.

            Sherlock’s smirk widened. “You happen to count how many shops and businesses we passed?”

            “Oh, I dunno, I was a bit occupied trying to make sure you didn’t run in front of traffic again.”

            “God, what must it be like in your brain? Essential details, just passing over your head. Seventeen, John.”

            “Okay, I’ll be sure to fill that in for the first problem on the exam, then.”

            “It took us…” Sherlock consulted his mobile. “Well, it took _me_ roughly five and a half minutes.” John rolled his eyes. “So, I would say that I passed about three shops per minute.”

            “Oh,” John said, “right, yes, seventeen over five. The rate. That’s a derivative, Sherlock, not an—”

            “I’m aware. If you’d been paying any attention, you’d know that in the first minute or so, we passed four. Then, in the next minute, three. Four, two, three, and in the final thirty seconds, one. Add those together: seventeen.”

            “Sorry?”

            Sherlock retrieved a scrap of paper and pen from his coat pocket. “Don’t fall asleep this time,” he said, and held it up against the wall, drawing out a graph. “Here. Say I draw out the fact that in the first minute, I did four shops. Then in the next, three, and so on. A straight line across the entire minute for each, to make things simple.”

            “Sure, okay.”

            “And I want to find how many shops I passed overall. What do you suggest?”

            “You could just add up the heights of the lines. You know, four and three and so on.”

            “Not quite, though, because what if I passed four shops per minute for two minutes in a row?”

            “Then you add it twice.”

            “Yes, exactly—because you’ve divided it into two sections. One per minute. What you are really suggesting, John, is to add up the _area_ beneath each bar. ‘Base times height,’ here, for the rectangles.” He drew a wavy line above the previous graph. “Say this was my speed along the run. How would you find how far I ran in total?”

            “The—the area underneath,” John said. “Right, because—it’s—it’s sort of—”

            “If you’re taking the base times the height, it would be meters per second, the height, times seconds, the base—meters.”

            “And so for the wavy graph—you don’t have rectangles, but—”

            “You make very small ones to approximate the shape,” he drew in a few, and then turned to John, grinning. “You see?”

            “With smaller and smaller bases—that explains the proof the professor did today!”

            “Integrals and derivatives are merely two sides of the same coin,” Sherlock said. “Obvious.”

            “Is this what you do in your spare time, then?” John pushed himself off the wall and waited for Sherlock to begin walking. “Give clueless students calculus demonstrations?”

            “Oh! No. God.”

            “What do you do, then? What are you studying?”

            “Chemistry,” Sherlock said, and John drifted slightly away, apparently suddenly conscious of their proximity as they walked.

            “So you’re going to become a—what, a…? A professor, or…a…lab…something?”

            Sherlock’s mouth curled into a dissatisfied frown. “Uncertain. Yourself?”

            “Doctor,” John answered quickly, and one of Sherlock’s feet seemed to forget how to step for half a second. “Eventually, anyway. Surprised?”

            “It should have been obvious, I suppose.”

            John smiled to himself, turned his head toward the buildings to his left, away from Sherlock. “That’s not what people normally say.”

            “What do people normally say?”

            “‘Oh, _John_ ,’” he imitated motherly condescension.

            “Ah. Because…?”

            “Because I wasn’t exactly studious up until about a year ago, so nobody thinks I _can_ be. As if I’m not aware that becoming a doctor takes _studying_.”

            “Well, John, from what I have observed you will make an excellent doctor.”

            John flushed. “Thanks. No one’s…er. I’m sure you’ll be great at whatever you decide to do.”

            “It’ll be a bit dull, though, won’t it?” Sherlock said after a fit of silent attention at areas where John wasn’t. “Being a doctor. Sitting in an office, wading through idiots who think their sniffles are serious or meeting with people who want smaller noses.”

            “I—er. I dunno.” John shrugged. It had passed through his mind, then, such a possibility. They walked on for another minute in silence.

            “A detective,” Sherlock blurted.

            “Sorry, what?”

            “That’s—what I want to be. To do. But not for the police, with all the paperwork and boring, easy cases. Just for—for me.”

            “Oh,” John said, and then his expression melted into a grin. “You’d be fantastic at that. You figured out about my being sick in about three seconds.”

            “Mm,” Sherlock glanced down, his ears tinged with red match John’s still-fading cheeks.  John, in his staring about, noticed the slight dimming of the evening sky and pulled out his mobile to check the time. “Oh, sh—it’s already been almost an hour since I was supposed to’ve shown up.” He really had been rather late. “Do you—uh—you never did tell me your rates, I—”

            “Free,” Sherlock said. “No charge. On the condition you tell no one else that I don’t charge.”

            “You’ve gotta let me—maybe—dinner? Can I…there must be _something_ …”

            “Actually, yes. There is something.” John raised his eyebrows, waiting. “Tell me: What did I get wrong earlier?”

            “That’s… _that’s_ what you want?”

            “Yes. Knowledge is the most valuable currency.”

            “Knowledge about me being ill is worth something. Yeah. Okay,” John said wryly.

            Sherlock shrugged.

            “All right, I’ll do that if you let me buy you something to eat. You look like you need it, anyway, and that’s still a lot less than I ought to pay you.” He sighed, still smiling. “That was…actually really fun. I get it, and…I feel loads better. So let me get you something.”

            “No.”

            John crossed his arms and stopped walking. “Dinner or you never find out what you got wrong.”

            “John, while I’m flattered by your interest, I…you should…”

            “Not like _that_ ,” John sputtered, and then, realizing his tone, calmed a bit. “I mean, I, that’s, but, no, just—me, buying food for both of us. Not a…not anything else. You’re my tutor, for god’s sake, and that aside two years younger than me.” He resumed walking.

            “Certainly at least ten years smarter, though.”

            “Oh, shut up,” John snorted, and sped up his pace a bit. “Are you coming?”

            “Nothing fancy.”

            “Fine. Sandwiches. Reasonably priced, non-fancy sandwiches. Come on, I know a place near here.”

            They walked in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock prompted, “So, what was it?”

            John said nothing, smiling to himself as they continued along to the restaurant. “This is pleasant, isn’t it?” he said instead, a while later.

            “I suppose it is. What—”

            “I dunno why that bird in the café seemed so convinced you weren’t worth the trouble of chasing down.” He flushed a little at the phrasing of it, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

            “Hm? Oh, that was Sally Donovan.”

            “Ex-girlfriend?”

            “‘Girlfriend’?” Sherlock shook his head. “No, not really my area.”

            “I—oh. Well. Okay. Uh…”

            “Acquaintance,” he specified. “We have a chemistry lab together. I may have said some unflattering but completely true things about her boyfriend at the beginning of the semester.”

            “That’s not very nice,” John said, but he was grinning. “Okay, here it is,” he opened the door.

            “‘Speedy’s,’” Sherlock read the sign. “I see.” He glanced around the small restaurant. “I like places like this,” he said offhandedly.

            John dug his hand into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

            “They’re exactly the sort of place my brother would never go to.”

            “Huh,” John chuckled. “I think I know what you mean.” At Sherlock’s curious gaze, he added, “I’ve got a sister.”

            “I doubt you know what I mean,” Sherlock said. “But I appreciate the attempt.” John simply raised his eyebrows. Sherlock could tell from the furrow of his brow that he was puzzling over that one, and then appeared to file it away for later as they approached the counter.

            Once they were seated with their sandwiches, John stared at Sherlock pointedly, and after a moment Sherlock realized John was waiting for him to eat. He rolled his eyes, picked his sandwich up, and took a bite. “What was it, then?” he asked through a full mouth.

            John chuckled at Sherlock’s eagerness. “You were right when you said I’d been sick, of course. And I have been feeling better the past couple days, but not a lot, because of the stress. I _did_ have the flu, but that’s not why I missed my classes.”

            Sherlock raised his eyebrows and leaned in slightly.

            “The flu was bad luck, because I caught it just as I was recovering from infectious mononucleosis. Er, you know, glandular fever.”

            Sherlock sat back for a moment, apparently calculating.

            “I don’t think…” John started, for fear Sherlock was worrying for his own health.

            Sherlock was suddenly leaning forward again, braced on his forearms on the table as he tilted his head conspiratorially toward John. “I want it. Give me it.”

            “Give you…”

            “My classes are dull, so I’ve nothing to miss out on. Best get it now rather than later, when there may be something more important to do.”

            “I don’t think…”

            “Did you intend to continue meeting with me several more times?”

            “Yeah, I…”

            “Give it to me, and consider the remainder of our sessions paid in full.”

            He could tell John was thinking about it—perhaps he couldn’t afford to take Sherlock to dinner _every_ time they met. “You said you tutor for free, though.”

            “You insisted on paying me back this time; I merely extrapolated that you would continue to do so.”

            John sighed. That much was true. “You know that I’d have to—er, to kiss you?”

            “Problem?”

            He let out a heavy breath, setting that question aside to consider after the rest. “Will you still be able to tutor while you’re sick? You’ll be very fatigued.”

            “Of course I can. I won’t have to waste all my energy at my useless classes.”

            John squared his shoulders and licked his lips. Fine. All right. This was no big deal. Sherlock was an excellent tutor, so really John was getting the better end of the bargain with all the free sessions, and anyway, this fellow certainly wasn’t bad-looking, for a bloke, and it didn’t really _matter_ , did it? Nobody he knew was here and despite all the rumors floating around campus Sherlock was really an all right sort, definitely much more personable than John had expected, and it was just to get glandular fever, that was the chief reason, so it needn’t be anything improper… “And you’re sure…?”

            “Absolutely.”

            John gulped and set forth purposefully to meet his end of the bargain. He leaned forward and grabbed the collar of Sherlock’s shirt, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s and keeping his eyes open just long enough to savor the surprise on Sherlock’s face. He allowed them to slip shut and sunk his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s hand smacked down onto the table between them as he struggled to maintain his balance.

            John hadn’t expected it to be unpleasant; but then, he’d never kissed a bloke before, so he really had no idea _what_ to expect. What he did not expect was the distinct sensation of his mouth melting into Sherlock’s like a knife slipping through butter; what he did not expect was warmth and body heat rising from Sherlock’s chest and neck and thawing their still-chilled noses. He did not expect that he would want to dig his hands through Sherlock’s hair, nor that he would actually do so. He did not expect Sherlock’s thumb and palm against his cheek. In general, he did not expect to be overwhelmed, to be instantly entranced. He did not expect kissing his math tutor to feel more natural to him after having known him for an hour than kissing his ex-girlfriend had after three solid months of snogging (before they had broken up, of course). He found himself trying to envelop Sherlock’s entire tongue in his own, and then settled for merely exploring it, cautiously and then with more vigor.

            Sherlock finally pulled back, dazed, and John wondered if he looked anywhere near the deep red that Sherlock’s flushed skin was. “I believe you’ve quite thoroughly infected me,” Sherlock said.

            John cleared his throat and licked his lips. “Sorry, er…”

            “No, it was—good.” Sherlock wiggled in his seat. “I…I rather liked it.”

            “S’pose we won’t actually know if you’ve gotten it for another month or two.”

            “Perhaps it would be best to…increase the chances of infection. If you—if that sounds like…”

            “Yeah, we ought to do that. Just to be, er, safe.” He cracked a smile, and Sherlock followed suit, snickering to himself. John snorted. “Stop it, Sherlock. We can’t giggle; I’ve just given you glandular fever.”

            “Yes; your own tutor, no less. Terrible.”

            “About that—is this, uh, how things normally—”

            “Do you mean to ask whether I, after imparting some of my most useful information and memory devices upon Mike Stamford, proceed to bribe him to snog me until I was sick?”

            “Well, when you say it like that…” John picked up his sandwich and took another bite while Sherlock smirked. “You know, it occurs to me that now that all my sessions are paid in full, I can afford to study a while longer. If you have time.”

            “Certainly.” Sherlock considered his sandwich for a length of time indicating that he was almost definitely thinking about more than just the sandwich. “John…” he finally said, which caught John’s attention. John set down his half-consumed sandwich to look Sherlock in the eye with the same intensity as when he’d first seen him. Sherlock took a slow, deep breath. “How do you feel about the violin?”


End file.
